


Unsung Heroes of the Resistance

by keerawa



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Kushiel's Legacy Fusion, Crueltide, Don't Have to Know Fusion Canon, F/M, Intrigue, Light BDSM, Moral Ambiguity, POV First Person, Resistance, Spies & Secret Agents, Terrorism, Two for One, World War II, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: Nightingale owed Varvara Sidorovna his life. If all she wanted in return was for him to attend a holiday party at the D'Angeline Embassy here in London, he could hardly refuse. No matter what memories it might stir up.
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale/Varvara Sidorovna Tamonina
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Unsung Heroes of the Resistance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xenocuriosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenocuriosa/gifts).



> Warnings for canonical levels of violence with non-canonical levels of moral ambiguity, horrors of war, and references to modern politics.
> 
> Thanks to hbthomas for the excellent last-minute beta and to NaryRising for the French translations.
> 
> Xenocuriosa requested a cross-over or fusion between Rivers of London and Kushiel's Legacy, and I couldn't resist! This story uses cultural and religious elements from Kushiel's Legacy. The events portrayed in the series are in the distant past, with Terre d'Ange and Alba as historical precursors of modern-day France and Britain. Rivers of London fans can read and enjoy the story without any knowledge of the Kushiel's Legacy series.
> 
>  _Even so had Kushiel cared for the damned in his charge, when he was still the Punisher of God; he loved them so well they received pain as balm and begged not to leave him._ \- Kushiel's Chosen by Jacqueline Carey

Peter’s surprise when I told him I would be attending a holiday party this evening was less than complimentary. I decided against providing him with any further information. 

Molly was, of course, aware of my destination, given that she had opened the elaborate invitation some weeks ago.

“I may return quite late. Don’t be alarmed if I miss breakfast,” I informed her.

She raised a single amused eyebrow in response. 

Leaving the Jag in the safety of the Folly’s garage, I caught a taxi to an exclusive foreign clothier just off Savile Row. There I underwent an hour-long session wherein Laurent, a D’Angeline man with the looks of a model and the manner of a drill sergeant, completed the final fitting for my bespoke costume and mask. He made a few adjustments to the skin-tight breeches that meant I would likely require assistance to remove them without damaging either the garment or myself, and then painted my bare arms with elaborate blue henna patterns mimicking woad tattoos like the one decorating the domino mask.

He seemed most pleased with the result. “Your ancestors would be proud. And that overcloak you requested may preserve your British modesty, but it entices the eye, heightens the anticipation – whomever you choose to reveal yourself to tonight will be thrilled.”

I felt my cheeks flush, and he laughed with delight.

I tried to tip him for his services, but he declined. “I assure you, monsieur, the lady’s recompense was most generous. Enjoy the party!” He provided a box for the suit and undergarments I’d worn into the shop, as well as the costume’s sandals and mask, helped me into my overcoat, and summoned a taxi for me. 

When I told the cab driver to bring me to the D’Angline Embassy he gave me a long, ugly look in the rear-view mirror, as if searching me for evidence of some perversion. When I was a boy, Terre d’Ange’s reputation in Britain had been a chancy mix of support for a long-term ally and a horrified disapproval of their libertine ways that dated back to the Victorian era. The nation’s reputation had been further sullied by the Vichy government’s abject surrender to the Germans during the war, and had never recovered. The courage of the D’Angeline resistance to the German occupation had somehow gone unremarked.

There was a long line of limousines, Rolls-Royces, Lamborghinis, and other vehicles of the rich and powerful outside the embassy, but mine was far from the only black cab. Judging from the heavy glamours I sensed around me I suspected that some of the demi-monde, always welcome among the D’Angeline, had used far less conventional methods of transport. The security bollards that I would have expected to see outside of any other embassy were instead a series of stone plinths, artful and lovely.

My invitation had been hand-delivered in early November. Enclosed within the heavy linen envelope was the invitation itself, a card listing the date and time for my first appointment with the clothier Laurent, and a handwritten note that said simply, 

_**Don’t be stubborn. You owe me. – V** _

Along with her initial, Varvara Sidorovna had left her _signare_ on the note, a brush of ice, silk, and leather against my cheek. As I indisputably owed Varvara my life, and more than my life, I RSVP’d for the embassy party, reported to the clothier, and allowed him to create the costume she had dictated for me to wear this evening. I would have attended the event for the mere chance I might see her there. I had hoped she might contact me at some point in the intervening weeks, but she’d made no effort to do so. 

When last we’d spoken in 2004, Varvara had been living as ‘Vivienne Boucher’, a member of the _Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire_ engaged in counterterrorism operations. A difficult and dangerous profession, even for as gifted a practitioner as Varvara, and one that took place in the shadows. Without knowing her current official name or if I might draw unwelcome attention to her through my inquiries, I’d no way of tracking her down. 

There was a hint of movement on the roof of the embassy. I wouldn’t risk any _forma_ in a modern vehicle like this black cab, but perhaps … I focused my curiosity, my intent, my urgent desire to _see_. The edge of the embassy roof swam into view, as if it were but a few yards away under a full moon. There were three figures in black uniforms, bearing rifles. Their posture was alert but relaxed. Embassy security, then. Interesting. That was a rather high level of preparedness for a holiday party.

I released the magic and sat back in my seat, pleased that, despite being out of practice with D’Angeline magic, I’d not lost my knack for it.

I watched as guests were greeted by embassy staff and their invitations checked before they were welcomed inside. The guests I had recognized as members of the demi-monde were invariably checked by the same staff-member, a lovely young woman with her blond hair back in an elaborate braid. I was amused to see her greet a tall man with the brightly colored feathers of a peacock. Most onlookers would assume the feathers were a costume, but they were his true form, on display in the streets of London for this one night.

My cab finally reached the front of the line. I paid the driver, including a generous tip. Despite his obvious disdain for Terre d’Ange, he’d not made any inappropriate comments.

“Happy Solstice,” he wished me as I exited the vehicle.

To my surprise, it was the blonde who greeted me at the head of the marble embassy stairs. “Terre d’ange welcomes you, Nightingale,” she said as I handed over my invitation. My surname sounded like a title on her lips. I felt a whisper of silken magic as she checked me for dangerous magics or malice towards those within the embassy. “She awaits you in the ballroom.” 

The young woman nodded to another staff member who ushered me inside. There was a roaring fire in the entry hall. The sweet scent of birch firewood brought me back to the winter of 1945, when the farms and temples of Terre d’Ange had sheltered me, wounded and incapable of using magic to defend myself, from the roving German patrols.

“This way, sir,” said the slim, handsome staff member, breaking my reverie. He guided me down a hallway to one of a dozen large private changing rooms. “I’ll collect your coat and street clothes once you’re done. If you require any assistance in donning your costume for the masquerade, you have only to ask.”

Once inside the changing room, I took the mobile phone Peter had gifted me out of my overcoat pocket, turned it on, and checked over the half-dozen texts I’d received from him so far this evening. Peter, out of respect for the traditions of the Day of Misrule, was attempting to prepare a family recipe for Molly in the Folly’s kitchen. It was going as well as one might expect.

I pecked out a text on the tiny keyboard reassuring Peter that Molly could likely tolerate any quantity of hot peppers, then a second letting him know I would be unavailable for the rest of the night and possibly into the next day. He responded with a flood of punctuation I couldn’t begin to translate. I informed him that Molly could get in touch with me were there any Falcon-related emergencies and then turned off the mobile. There were certainly no pockets for it in this costume.

I hung up my coat, removed my socks and shoes, and opened the clothier’s box. I donned the sandals and mask, and then checked my appearance in the two full-length mirrors. The white domino mask placed a blue crescent and spear ‘tattoo’ in the center of my forehead, a mark received after a warrior’s first kill in battle. As it was a battle honor I’d certainly earned in my service to the Crown, I’d not protested. 

I was the very picture of a warrior from the days of ancient Alba. Or, given how tight and revealing both the vest and the breeches were, perhaps the star of a pornographic film directed by someone with a _penchant_ for historical detail. 

Well, this was why I’d demanded Laurent provide an overcloak. I put on the cloak, buttoned it up to the top, and then checked my appearance in the mirrors.

Oh dear.

The silk cloak wasn’t black, as I had assumed in the shop. It was a deep, dark purple, black until it caught the light. My lower face, throat, sandaled feet, and arms, bare but for the blue henna tattoos, were the only visible skin, but something about the cut of the cloak and the way it clung to my form when I moved suggested that I was wearing nothing, nothing at all, underneath it.

I exited the changing room and handed my possessions to the helpful embassy staffer. He guided me to the massive, pillared ballroom, decorated with motifs of darkness and light. I entered and paused at the top of a grand flight of stairs, searching the crowd for Varvara. 

A girl, a child really, wearing the white costume of an angel, approached me. Eyes on the floor, she offered a tray of tiny glasses filled with a clear liqueur. She trembled, whether due to nervousness or some trained response, I could not decide.

“ _Joie_ ,” she whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

“Joy,” I responded, taking one of the glasses from the tray. 

A number of people had turned to observe my entrance, and the longer I stood there, the more seemed to be watching. Varvara, for whatever reason, wanted me on display tonight. Mission objective achieved.

I finally caught sight of her, wearing the traditional bronze mask and robes of a priestess of Kushiel. Even in the crowded ballroom, no one jostled the alert, regal figure. As I watched, an elegant silver-haired gentleman wearing the mask of a fox approached her, bowed deeply, and, by his gesture, suggested they retire somewhere more private. She shook her head no, then turned to look at me and beckoned.

As I approached I noticed that rather than a symbolic flail, Varvara had a braided leather signal whip looped at her side, of exactly the type she’d favored decades ago. My heart beat a little faster at the sight of it.

“ _Joie à toi sur cette Nuit la Plus Longue_ ,” I toasted her in my rusty D’Angeline, lifting the tiny glass to my lips. The sweet taste of the ice wine reminded me of long-dead friends. One of the embassy servants held out an empty tray for my glass and whisked it away – apparently they had strict instructions to make certain no uncouth foreigners smashed their glasses tonight.

Varvara inspected me and chuckled. “You had him draw nightingales on your arms?” she asked in English.

I shrugged. “Laurent asked me to suggest a bird or animal. If you were looking for subtlety, you should have invited someone else.”

“No no, it’s very … you,” she said. “And the rest?” she asked, indicating my buttoned overcloak.

I took a breath and steadily unbuttoned the dozen buttons, one by one, ignoring the growing crowd of curious onlookers drifting near us to watch me disrobe. Then I efficiently removed the overcloak and, with conscious showmanship, tossed it to the individual standing rather too close to my left shoulder. I met Varvara’s eyes, visible behind her bronze mask, and lifted my chin in challenge.

A tiny smile on her lips, she held up one hand and marked a circle in the air with her forefinger, silently commanding me to turn around so she could inspect the back of the costume – or possibly my backside.

Arms extended for balance, I turned sharply away from her. A raised eyebrow inspired the crowd behind me to move back to a respectful distance. I continued the turn until I was facing her, and if I’d not the grace of a D’Angeline dancer, I like to think the fencing master at Casterbrook would have approved.

“ _Très beau_ , Nightingale,” she praised me. “Britain honors us, and our traditions, on the Longest Night.” The crowd, which had gone silent, gave a murmur of approval. 

Varvara held out her right hand imperiously towards the overly-eager young woman costumed as a mermaid who was holding my overcloak and snapped her fingers. The woman instantly dropped to her knees and proffered up the cloak to her. Varvara took it from her, looked at me, and paused.

“I would very much enjoy a few hours of your undivided attention tonight, if you are willing,” she said.

“Of course, Madame, I’m all yours,” I answered, still without the faintest idea what name or title Varvara might be using these days.

There was a fresh hum of gossip. I suspected that money was changing hands. 

Varvara ignored the crowd, all of her attention on me. She gently, chivalrously even, placed the overcloak around my shoulders. I allowed this, and left the cloak hanging open and unbuttoned as I followed her through the crowd, up two flights of stairs, and down a long corridor into a bland guest bedroom where, judging by the hospital corners of the bedding and the spice-perfume scent, Varvara had slept last night.

Varvara hummed. I felt a brush of her _signare_ as my ears popped, the sign of a strong privacy ward. She took off her mask, threw it on the bedside table, and sprawled out on the massive bed. “Vodka?” she offered, waving to the table where a chilled bottle and two glasses awaited us.

“No, I think I’d best keep a clear head tonight,” I replied. “I’m not certain what I was expecting at this party,” I told her as I took off my own mask and settled into what would have been a very comfortable wingback chair if my trousers were more forgiving, “but it wasn’t a public performance. You might have warned me.”

“I know how private you are, Nightingale. I’d never schedule a ‘public performance’ with you unless we’d negotiated it in advance,” she teased. “No, it was better this way. You’re a serviceable liar,” she said, and I could hear the hints of her Russian accent now, of the Varvara Sidonovna I’d know during the war, “but this is a discerning audience, and your authentic reactions have always been … riveting.”

She looked at the sour expression on my face and barked a laugh before sobering. “That was an excellent first impression, exactly what we needed tonight.”

“Needed for _what_?” I said, leaning forward and then, with a wince, gingerly back into the chair. These breeches really needed another inch or two of room at the crotch, if I was going to be sitting down in them. “I saw the security outside. Is there a threat against the embassy?”

“There has been some chatter, but it’s difficult these days to tell if something is a credible threat by a lone wolf terrorist or merely an idle boast. My people have taken all necessary precautions. No, I invited you here tonight to address a more … existential threat.” She paused, likely for dramatic effect.

“An existential threat?” I asked, inviting her to continue. 

“Fascists,” she spat as if it were a curse word, which, for our generation, it was and always would be. “A new right-wing party, the FP, has become very popular in Terre d’Ange. They are rabidly nationalistic, anti-immigrant, and opposed to any alliance with other nations,” Varvara explained.

“That would knock a rather nasty hole through the middle of the EU,” I commented.

“Ha! As you say. Last month they released a series of YouTube videos portraying the recent wave of refugees as an ‘invasion’, comparing it to the invasions by the Germans and the Skaldi. Very heavy-handed, but effective propaganda. If nothing is done, I expect they will claim many seats in the Assembly in the next national election.”

I steepled my hands. Germany had been a liberal democracy before they elected Hitler to power in ’33. “You have a plan?”

“Of course. The people of Terre d’Ange need to be reminded of their history, the people of other nations who have aided us in our times of trouble. Stage one you have already completed most admirably. We have re-introduced you to D’Angline society and recalled the legacy of Drustan mab Necthana, the Alban king who married our beloved Queen Ysandre de Courcel and brought an army from your British Isles to help defend Terre d’Ange from the Skaldi invaders. Our royal line is descended from them both.”

“I’m pleased I was able to assist. If there is anything more I can do, you have only to ask.”

Varvara smiled unpleasantly. “I don't _ask_ for what I need to defend my country, Nightingale; I take it. You taught me that. So - stage two - the crown prince of Terre d’Ange will be arriving shortly, to play the role of the Sun King in tonight’s masquerade. After that there will be a ceremony. He will award us both the Star of Elua for our work with the Resistance during the war.”

“You’re joking,” I said flatly.

“I am not.”

“British citizens aren’t allowed to accept foreign awards,” I informed her.

“Not without The Sovereign’s permission, true. My Queen spoke to your Queen about it last week. She approves.”

“Do you think no one will notice that we appear to be the same age now that we were in ’45?” I said, rather desperately. “You’ve changed your name at least a dozen times, and I’ve kept a very low profile, ever since we started aging backwards.”

She waved my concern away. “The D’Angelines are not so skittish about magic as your English. Tonight I reclaim the name of my birth, Nightingale. Can’t you be happy for me?”

I sighed, then looked my dear friend in the eye and spoke her name, slowly and worshipfully as if I were baptizing an infant or conjuring an angel. “Varvara. Sidorovna. Tamonina.”

She smiled at me, a shy and innocent smile. She looked quite different with such a smile on her face. I wondered, if I had known Varvara as a young woman, before she was recruited to the Night Witch Regiment, before she was captured and tortured by the SS, before she escaped, fought her way across the German countryside to take refuge in Terre d’Ange and became the ad hoc commander of a desperate resistance movement – if I had known her before all that, is this what she would have looked like? 

“You deserve the honor, Varvara, as do so many of our comrades who fought to free Terre d’Ange from the Germans. But I was only there for the last year, and was in such poor condition at first, I was likely more of a burden than an asset to the Resistance.”

I was raised on tales of noble Alban warriors, the Knights of Northumbria, and the gentlemen of the air during the Great War. Yet the war I'd found myself fighting in Terre d'Ange was nothing like two armies facing each other on the honorable field of battle. It was ‘asymmetric warfare’, pitting untrained men, women, and children against soldiers who responded with brutal reprisals. We took any advantage we could find. And I understood, better than any D'Angeline, how most effectively to break the rules of civilized warfare to shock and dismay the enemy. I had more regrets for my actions that year than any other period in my long life. To be honored with a medal for it was obscene.

“You underestimate the impact you had on us, and on the war effort, Nightingale,” Varvara said. “But even if what you say were true, you are a vital part of the story we are telling. Two foreigners, war refugees, granted asylum by the Temple of Elua, who banded together to free their adopted nation from the fascist invaders – it is the perfect counter-narrative to the lies the FP has been spreading.”

“But you were the one who –”

“Every good D’Angeline war story is also a romance,” she said.

“Good Lord,” I said, pressing two fingers to the bridge of my nose. “There’s a stage three of this plan that’s even worse.”

“You always could sniff out an ambush, Nightingale,” Varvara said, vastly amused. “Do you remember Alfreda?”

I spent a moment sending my thoughts back to the war. So many men and women – the Yeshuites and Tsingano granted asylum with me, hiding in secret rooms within the temples, being smuggled out from under the noses of the Germans. Priests and priestesses, sharing their scarce food rations with us. Servants of Namaah, proud and beautiful and fierce, dismissed as common prostitutes by the Germans whilst they formed the backbone of an unparalleled network of information-gathering, smuggling, sabotage, and assassination that destroyed the occupying army from within.

“Alfreda – the priestess of Shemhazai with the bad hip, the shy one who maintained the radios?”

“That’s her,” Varvara confirmed. “She was quite taken with you, you know, and a truly gifted writer. Alfreda passed away this year and her grandchildren found her memoir, _Héros méconnus de la résistance_ , stashed away in her attic.”

“ _Unsung Heroes of the Resistance_?” I translated uneasily. “You’ve read it?” I asked.

Varvara nodded solemnly, but her eyes were dancing with mirth. “If the two of us got up to half of what Alfreda imagined, we’d have had no time or energy left for harassing the Germans. It’s a gripping story, though, mostly true, and the timing couldn’t be better.”

“Right,” I said with a crisp nod. “Our anti-fascist counter-narrative. When will it be published?”

“Oh, it is already published,” she said. “It will be released in Terre d’Ange at midnight tonight. News coverage of the award ceremony here will make for excellent free advertising.”

Molly would have already pre-ordered a copy. That was inevitable. But it might be only a minor release in Britain. There was an outside chance that I could, by engaging Molly and Ms Beverly Brook in a conspiracy of silence, prevent Peter from reading it.

“You will _not_ send a copy to my apprentice,” I told Varvara. “Is that understood?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “Of course not. He probably can’t even read D'Angeline. And as I understand it, the English-language translation leaves out all the best parts. The British have such delicate sensibilities. But that reminds me; I had thought you might bring him as your plus one tonight. Was your Sparrow otherwise occupied?”

“I don’t think this is quite Peter’s scene,” I told her. Delicate sensibilities, indeed. The thought of a look of disgust on Peter’s face like that cab driver had given me was deeply unsettling.

Varvara sat up straight, eyeing me quizzically. “Has he progressed far in the D’Angeline mysteries?” she asked.

“No, I’m training him in purely Newtonian magic,” I told her.

She gave a very Gallic shrug. “If he has no talent for it, there is nothing to be done, I suppose.”

“I’m certain he could learn the mysteries,” I said, rather insulted on Peter’s behalf. 

If anything, they might come too easily to him. Peter’s curiosity, creativity, and compassion would be tremendous assets in D’Angeline heart magic. But to induct an apprentice into the D’Angeline mysteries, as Varvara had me, was no small thing. It created a life-long bond that was not necessarily sexual, but highly intimate, a sharing of hopes, dreams, passions and fears that seemed an imposition Peter might not be prepared for. He’d certainly done nothing to deserve my nightmares.

“So why not train him?” Varvara asked me.

“There are several reasons,” I said evasively. “The D’Angeline school of magic is well-established, but I’m the sole remaining Master of Newtonian magic. Those traditions need to be passed down, and Peter is the only one I’ve found worthy of them.”

The device prematurely detonated at Ettersburg had been intended for an attack on Moscow. The silent, invisible blast had sent me to my knees and _twisted_ the magic around it, disrupting every practitioner in Western Europe. Those closest to the blast were the most profoundly affected, burning wildly through our own magical reserves and drawing on any magic near us in uncontrolled displays of power. I’d barely recognized the danger in time, after the trio of German practitioners I’d been dueling had massively overpowered their own shields, killing themselves in what they thought was a draining attack from me. 

The following night, having escaped into the countryside alone and on foot, I had taken refuge in a barn. I’d absently called a werelight, given myself a second-degree burn, drained my staff, and nearly exhausted my own magical core before I managed to quench it.

The entire German school of practitioners had been wiped out, down to the youngest apprentice. The Night Witch battalions on the Eastern Front were decimated. It wasn’t until I made it back to London after the war that I found out Mellensby had spontaneously combusted on the flight home. Oswald and I were the only members of our brigade, the flower of British wizardry, who lasted out the year, and he had survived by renouncing his magic altogether. The remaining practitioners of the Folly had called on their unstable abilities cautiously, if at all, and had expunged all mention of the device from the Black Library. 

I managed to avoid death those first weeks by remembering my summers in the Scouts with my cousins - the wilderness wide games were competitive, and the use of any magic was considered cheating. Once I reached the sanctuary of Terre d'Ange, I survived through Varvara’s training in heart magic, the D’Angeline arts of maintaining and surrendering control, and perhaps, as she had often suggested, Kushiel’s grace.

Magic itself had faded, the fabric of it rent and torn by the weapon.

Varvara had pulled her legs up under her, huddled within her robe on the bed. “Nightingale, I certainly believe you are the only Master practicing the traditions as you recognize them, but you and I are both aware that there are other practitioners of Newtonian magic.”

I nodded grimly. Varvara’s intelligence was accurate. The Faceless Man and his Little Crocodiles had corrupted the traditions, but the magic they practiced was undeniably Newtonian. “Once Peter has learned enough to recognize and counter the Newtonian _forma_ they’re likely to use against him, then I can begin to expand his training.”

“So you _do_ consider yourself his Master?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Peter feels the term has too many negative connotations.”

“Mmmm, he may have a point. He is from a family of African immigrants, yes? What does he call you?”

I thought about that. “Peter generally refers to me as _boss_ ,” I confessed.

She smirked. “I like this boy already. I do hope I get a chance to meet him while in London.”

“How long will you be staying?” I asked her.

“Until the New Year, at least.”

The overhead light flickered. “Ah – duty calls,” Varvara said. 

My ears popped as she dismissed her privacy ward and tilted her head to listen. I wondered if she had one of those covert modern radios in her ear, or if this was some subtle D’Angeline magic at work.

“The crown prince will be arriving any moment now,” she informed me. “I’ll need to greet him in the entry hall.” 

The two of us stood up, tidied our costumes, and put on our masks. 

“Do you still consider yourself a priestess of Kushiel?” I asked her.

“One never leaves His service, but I serve in other ways now.” She stopped at the door and turned to me. “If you should feel the need for His mercy, Thomas, I would be honored to serve as priestess when you seek it,” she said, hand brushing against the handle of the whip at her side.

I licked my lips, struck by a sudden, intense yearning for exactly that; to lay my fears and responsibilities, my guilt and cares at His feet for a few hours and feel Kushiel’s deep, unconditional love. “That – yes,” I said, all I could manage in the moment.

She nodded gravely. “After the awards ceremony,” she promised, opening the door and entering the public spaces of the embassy.

I trailed her down the long hallway, uncertain if it was appropriate for me to join the crown prince’s welcoming party, but unwilling to leave Varvara’s side.

She froze. “ _Emmène-le en lieu sûr!_ ” she ordered, picked up the long skirts of her robe, and began to run.

Get who inside? Was the crown prince in danger? We dashed down the stairways, past startled guests, and through the entry hall to find a scene much reminiscent of the war. There was a firefight going on – I heard rifle shots from the roof. A small team of security personnel armed with handguns were holding the entry to the building. I created a shield to protect myself from the gunfire.

“ _Cessez le feu_ ,” Varvara shouted.

A small lorry had crashed into the concrete plinths of the security barrier. The windshield was starred with bullet holes, and the driver was sprawled forward over the steering wheel. The young man in the passenger seat was wounded, but still alive. Pale and determined, he dropped his gun and lunged for something on the dashboard. 

I knew this manoeuvre. I had planned it and sent young men just like this one to their deaths to destroy German checkpoints. And I had, in the long aftermath of the war, served my penance by perfecting a spell to safely dispose of the unexploded bombs that littered London for years after the Blitz.

I cast it instinctively, in the moment I saw the boy move. A 14th order spell, it created a perfectly spherical shield that redirected the force of the blast itself to contain the explosion. However, as Peter had observed when I demonstrated it for him, no transfer of energy is perfect. And that wasted energy would inevitably escape in the form of heat.

I’d never used the spell to contain a bomb quite... this ... _powerful_. The sphere, thirty feet across, blazed into a London night gone dark, all electronics shorted out. I could feel the steadily building heat from the top of the embassy stairs, as if I were standing in front of an open forge. A nearby tree burst into flame. 

“Varvara,” I called out, knowing she would understand.

I felt her _signare_ , strong and unmistakable. A frigid, howling wind blew past me, leeching away the excess energy. I concentrated, drawing on her magic as well as my own, contracting the spherical shield, the mass and energy within it smaller, tighter, until I allowed it to dissipate. A dense sphere of metal no more than three feet in diameter dropped into the crater I’d made of the street.

I stood panting, shivering in the sudden cold, wet snow as Varvara issued commands to her people, something about checking for biological, chemical, or radioactive debris. There was a distant wail of sirens. In the light provided by the burning tree I saw a number of civilians emerging from behind parked cars. I noted an ITV news van and their large satellite dish. And then I paused, struck by a truly horrible thought. 

I turned to Varvara, stepped close to her, close enough to kiss, and whispered, “Did you do this?”

“What?” she said, confused and wary.

“Did you stage this attack? Because if I’ve just killed a man as part of a propaganda stunt, I will not forgive you for it,” I told her.

“Of course not, Nightingale. The attack was real. I’d no idea the spell you used even existed.”

I tilted her chin up, looked her in the eye and – couldn’t tell. I was, as Varvara had noted, a serviceable liar when circumstances called for it; Varvara was exceptional, able to weave together lies, truths and half-truths until even she couldn’t tell the difference. During the war she was ruthless, willing to use any means necessary to destroy the Nazis. Was she capable of this, after all these long years of cold wars and lukewarm _détentes_ , to prevent the rise of fascism in Europe once again?

Perhaps.

“I would not so betray your trust,” Varvara said. “I swear it on my power.”

There was – not a sound exactly, but a sensation like a ringing bell. It spread out from us, a drop of wine in a still, clear pool of water. Behind us, the blonde security officer in the elaborate braid gasped at the feeling.

“Was that-”

“I believe so,” I murmured. 

Magic had heard her oath and witnessed it, as we'd not seen on this continent since Ettersberg. I had hoped, as Varvara and I aged younger, as the demi-monde grew more active and the number of magic incidents increased over the years. I had hoped that the wound men had inflicted upon Magic itself through our clever ignorance and the viciousness of war might heal. And now, it seemed, it finally had.

“Even the Longest Night ends with the dawn,” Varvara said, tears in her eyes.

I took her hand, bowed over it, and pressed my lips to the back of it in a fierce, bruising kiss.

I didn’t notice a flash, but there must have been one. Because, in a display of Magic’s keen sense of the absurd, the photo of me in that archaic, revealing costume, kissing Varvara’s hand on the snowy embassy steps would become the iconic image of the renewed friendship between our two nations. 

I made my way back to the Folly the next morning, sore from a proper scourging and lighter in spirit than I’d felt in years. I’d hoped to sneak in, my entrance unremarked, but was caught right outside my bedroom. 

“Good morning, sir,” Peter greeted me cheerfully. It seemed he had survived his attempt to cook for Molly unscathed.

“Ah, Peter. Were there any incidents overnight?”

“Well, I hear there was some type of Falcon-related incident at the Terre d’Ange Embassy, but apparently they handled it without any outside assistance,” he said, innocently enough.

“I’ll lay down for a bit of a kip, then.”

As I brushed past him, Peter murmured, “Nice ink.”

“Pardon me?” I said, shooting my cuffs to make sure the blue henna marks were covered.

“I said, have a nice nap, boss. Molly and I can hold down the fort for a few more hours.”

“Much appreciated,” I said, stepping into my bedroom and closing then locking the door behind me. I drifted off to sleep plotting how I might keep Peter from ever, ever reading _Unsung Heroes of the Resistance_.


End file.
